


This is the Way the World Ends

by sporklift



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: M/M, New Years' Eve, Romotica, Ten Years Later, Y2K scare, kinda romantic kinda erotic kinda both and kinda neither
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 22:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12262902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporklift/pseuds/sporklift
Summary: It's December 31, 1999, and Richie's cold and alone in New York City when he just happens to hail a cab with a driver he knew a long time ago.





	This is the Way the World Ends

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So, a few things for housekeeping. 
> 
> This story can be read as either canon compliant or a complete AU. I left it purposely vague, and since they forget all about It before they come back to Derry as older adults, hopefully that will stand in for not mentioning it at all. That being said, this takes stuff from both movie and book canon, though it shouldn't be spoilery. 
> 
> While I did my best to research the Y2K scare, it’s possible I didn’t characterize it to its best extent. News can be misleading for how the average person reacted and that’s primarily how I did my research. 
> 
> Okay. That's about it. A lot of stuff went into this story that I won't bore you with, though I'd be happy to chat about it. Feel free to ask if you're curious, but in the meantime and without further ado, please enjoy -

December 31, 1999

 

Richie shoulders his way out of the phone booth, still scribbling into the palm of his left hand, when he knocks into the next person in line. He mumbles his half-assed apology, but the person he hit doesn’t seem to notice, sliding into the booth without even taking Richie into account.

That’s New York, he supposes. Even though he’s only been here a couple days, he thinks he gets the gist. Long crowds of unfriendly people, jerk offs, and over-stressed CFOs scripting embezzlement cover ups into their Palm Pilots. They all look like they’re on the verge of death.

Or, maybe, Death Face is just that one guy. The one very literally standing on a soapbox, thrusting a Bible up into the night. He’s gray-haired and with every loud puff of air a cloud emerges from his pale lips and Richie tries not to focus too much on it. It’s hard though, with the way he’s spitting vitriol about the End Times, and Y2K, and how -- at midnight, all the computers will go haywire and it’s Divine Retribution for mankind’s materialism and atheism and literally any other -ism he can think of that doesn’t align with his own.

Richie’s attitude is starting to get just as sore as his arm, the longer he stands out here on the freezing curb, tires sloshing gunk and slush up onto his knees. The sermon is carrying over. Airplanes will fall from the sky, phone services will go down, trains will fly off their tracks, the entire world is going to descend into anarchy.

And - yeah - you don’t need to speak tongues or commune with God to think that. Richie watches the news. He heard President Clinton call this a horror movie. And while Richie likes to reserve ‘horror’ for things a little less...fear-mongering, he gets what uncertainty can do to people.  There have been warnings about riots. Fears about food and supplies and broken shop windows.  Everybody’s best guess of what the new millennium will bring is immediately offset by a new uncertainty.

But - that’s the thing - _everything’s_ uncertain. If it’s not Y2K  and its computers that’s going to fuck the world up the ass, it’ll be the USSR, or AIDS or apathy.

Take your goddamn pick.

Richie’s not a computer guy, though. So he really doesn’t know too much about why the switch in the year would cause all that mayhem. Something about computers thinking the 00 year would be 1900 or 1800 or some shit like that. Why on earth a confused year in a computer would cause elevators to stop in their shafts, like the soapbox prophet is screaming right now, Richie doesn’t know.

However, he does know radio stations should still work just fine, no matter what happens, and that in January, he’ll be back in the recording studio.  Analog or digital, it’s happening.

He shuffles out of earshot, arm still up to get the attention of any cabs who might take pity on him.

It might be kinda fun to broadcast the end of the world. Full on Orson Welles, _War of the Worlds,_ type shit.

But first he’d have to get back to the station in L.A.  And Richie isn’t exactly chomping at the bit to get back to California.

Don’t get him wrong. Generally, Richie likes L.A. The fears that seem to overtake New York are constantly offset by indie projects and long treks to fame. But he doesn’t have an apartment anymore and all the clothes in his duffle bag still smell like his ex-boyfriend. Richie figures, if he’s going to feel as lost as he does now, he might as well do it in a city he knows nothing about. As if that’ll make up for bringing in the new year, the new _millennium_ and, possibly, the last one, all by his lonesome.

Someone runs across the street, throwing raw eggs at the windshield of a stretch limo on its way to some party, cussing them out for not taking the End Times seriously.

And Richie waves his arm again. The cabs continue to whizz by, and Richie can’t help but wonder if he looks West Coast enough to be invisible.  Which is a little ironic, given his coworkers all consider him the very personification of New England itself, no matter how hard he tries to shake it.  But he supposes he’s too tan for the dark New York night, but he lost his contacts somewhere on the floor of his hotel room, so he’s wearing his glasses, and can’t even boast that he looks like a guy from L.A.

Maybe he looks like he doesn’t belong anywhere. He supposes that cabs don’t like to take passengers that won’t have a destination, anyway.

If he walks long enough, maybe he’ll get back to his hotel room.

But no sooner has he just given the fuck up than the next cab he waves at shimmies to the side of the road. Richie stand there, for a second, wondering if he’s seeing things. But - wait - this is New freakin’ York and if he hesitates for even a fraction of a second, someone is bound to take this cab for himself.

And so, he jumps on it. Sliding into the backseat of the cab. The temperature shift from the freezing December air into the heat and leathery-smell circulating around him.

It also doesn’t smell like feet. Which is quite the rarity for a New York cab.

The cab driver looks at him through the rear-view mirror. He’s got big eyes that’re dark, dark brown and long eyelashes and almost looks familiar…

“Where to?”

And Richie’ll be damned. If those eyes aren’t familiar as hell, the voice sure is. He scans the bottom half of the partition to see the I.D info on his driver that’s hanging there, unlaminated and brown and

Yep.

“ _Eddie?!”_ At twenty-three, Richie still has no filter, and so with a little too wide a gape, he splutters out the question. His eyes flash down to the name, as though expecting the letters to shuffle and rearranged and spell out something other than **_EDWARD KASPBRAK._ **

The driver -- Eddie, it’s fuckin’ Eddie -- spins around. He blinks through the hazy plexiglass partition between them. His jaw drops, just as unable to believe what he’s seeing as Richie was in the first place. “Jesus Christ,” He murmurs, a few hop-skip-jumps away from a normal volume. But it still hits Richie’s ears like a cymbal.

\-- and, oh. It’s too easy. Laughably easy.

“Close, but no,” He says, frowning. “I’m Richie. Richie Tozier. Remember?”

It’s as if Eddie’s first instinct is to roll his eyes and flip him off, from the ease in which he raises his hand. For a second, they’re thirteen again. Or fifteen or eighteen. Either way, they’re younger and back in Maine and about to arm wrestle over a popsicle or the best seat in the cinema.  At least until he speaks again. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in - what - California?”

And now they’re back in December. Back in 1999, at the end of the world. Back inside the hot taxicab that smells like leather.

“I’m on vacation.” He responds, “It’s New Years, don’t a shitton of people come here for this?”

“So to Times Square?” Eddie turns back to the wheel, then, and Richie realizes he missed the opportunity get a closer look at him. Did he still have the same light spattering of freckles he’d had when they were seventeen?

“Nah.” Richie wonders how clearly Eddie can hear him. “Just to my hotel. The John in Flushing. 37th street.”

In the rear-view, Richie can see Eddie’s brow is tight and he has to try not to grin at that.

“You came all the way to New York for New Years, just to spend it in your hotel room?”

“Hey. I know how to party. But no,” Richie leans forward in the seat, up against the partition. “I just have to make some phone calls before I go out again.”

Eddie doesn’t reply. He’s too busy pulling the car into reverse, putting his hand on the passenger’s headrest. They’re practically nose-to-nose, only a clear partition between them, and Eddie jumps. There’s a small wheezy squeak. And it could’ve come from the heater in the car, but Eddie’s blushing and Richie wants to think it came from his old friend’s throat. “Put on your fucking seat belt,” He mutters, sliding out of his parallel park and into the crazy New York traffic like it’s nothing.

“Do you always talk to your passengers like that?” Richie feigns offense, obliging him nonetheless. The metal sheet clicks into plastic, wobbly and insecure, and somehow feels subpar as a safety measure.

“I’m usually not worried about my passengers trying to jump in the shotgun seat.” Eddie looks back at him through the rear-view mirror. The reflection’s dim and doesn’t do enough to fully pay attention to Eddie’s face. If it weren’t for the name on the seat or the voice that sounded so familiar, Richie doesn’t know if he would have even recognized him. Sure, Eddie is still, to date, the person with brownest eyes Richie has ever seen. But he’s sure there are men with browner eyes, deeper ones. But the mirror doesn’t give him enough detail. He can’t even see what he’s sure is the judgemental clash of teeth against tongue and lip.

Eyes are nice. They’re anchorage. But that’s not the whole picture.

They’re standing still at an intersection, turn signals blinking at them. Cars are trying to merge from any number of different lanes, preparing for the light to change from red to green so they can slide into a place someone else had previously occupied.

Richie drums his fingertips on the windowsill and asks, “So. Cab driving? How’d you get into that?”

“I’ve been looking into more chauffeur gigs,” Eddie’s right hand slides down the steering wheel, slow, to the bottom. “But so far this’s the one that stuck.”

Richie gets it. When he was doing his internship at the radio station, he would’ve been starving if not for a second job as a bagger for a grocery store. You’ve got to shovel the shit before you can do what you want to do. These things take time. It’s a huge reason Richie’s so thankful for his upcoming radio show. Even if it’ll be on at ass-in-the-morning and the only people who will listen are truckers pulling all nighters. Eddie’s version of an early-as-fuck radio show, apparently, is driving a cab through the busy roads of Manhattan.

Richie doesn’t want to admit something so _sweet_ as empathy. And so, he leans back and hooks his right foot over his left knee. “Wow. Living the dream, Eds.”

A chortle. It’s dry and distant and familiar. “Oh yeah. People pissing and fucking and spewing vomit in the backseat. Just what I wanted.”

Eddie laughs when Richie pokes at the seat for stains at the admission.

“We clean the cabs, dumbass. And obviously I do.”

“I’m surprised you’re able to stomach it.”

He meets Eddie’s eyes in the rear-view. Eddie saw his reaction. It’s a fact that only just occurs to Richie. He doesn’t know why, but it makes him swing his head away.

“I never said the puke wasn’t mine.”

Red clicks to green. They finally move along the intersection. Eddie’s hands, faithfully return back to ten and two. The car slides, graceful, forward in the street.

Manhattan is lit up. Phosphorescent lights bounce off the glittering snow. The slush spews in every direction under tires and feet on the sidewalk. Headlights scream their way into retinas, shakingly bright.

And, left with all this light pollution, Richie wipes off his glasses and asks, “So what do you _actually_ want to be doing?”

“What?”

“Eds. There’s no way in fuckin’ hell you’d willingly do a job that involves dealing with people’s piss and jizz on a nightly basis.”

Even though Richie can’t see he frown, the crooked disgust on Eddie’s face, he practically can hear it in Eddie’s voice. It’s almost as good. “God. You’re still disgusting.”

“Yep. Now answer my question.”

Eddie sighs. “I want to start a chauffeur business, myself. Limos, though.”

“That’s fuckin’ awesome.”

Eddie pauses, as though he’s unsure what to make of it.  Richie can feel a small sliver of electricity wind its way up his spine when his friend says, “Really?”

“Hell yeah.”

“...thanks,” Eddie murmurs and eases on the brake, because they’re at another intersection. Once again his hands slide down the wheel. Slower this time. Richie watches his knuckles appear and disappear as his hands go tense and relax, in practically the same motion. Eddie’s fingernails are trimmed and clean and the only thing that would scream “Eddie Kaspbrak” any louder would be if his goddamn watch went off.

To Richie’s knowledge, Eddie hadn’t fanatically taken any of his pills since they were thirteen. But he never stopped wearing that watch.

But that’s not the alarm that goes off. Instead, it’s Eddie’s voice. The sound carries through the partition and Richie wishes, for a moment, that they’d opened it. “What about you? What are you up to these days?”

The smallness of the small talk takes Richie aback a few good steps. As though, somehow, Eddie should just _know_ what Richie’s been up to all these years and that they should just slide back into things like they were all the way back in ‘93.

It’s ridiculous though, so he lets himself open his big, fat mouth to catch Eddie up.  He talks for a long time about his internship and how it opened up to a chance to host his own radio show. . And maybe he’s coloring outside the lines a little, but when he’s nearly done, they’re crossing from Manhattan into Queens. Richie hadn’t even realized they’d moved from their intersection. He talks about the heat in L.A and how his eyes string from having to touch them all the time to get used to his contacts. He fills in all the empty spaces he’d left behind since high school. “That’s pretty much it. I’m doing pretty okay. My ex got the apartment, though, so I’m couch camping for a while. Kinda why I’m here.”

“What?” Eddie almost quirks his head to the side. It’s adorably confused.

Richie explains, without much thought, though a small, warm laugh. “He got the apartment. I got his TV. Sold it, and now I can pay for the hotel.”

Eddie pauses. His voice only formas half a question. “He?”

Oh…oh shit. Richie bites his lip. He nods and tries not to look at Eddie in the rear-view, tries to sound like he doesn’t care. “Yep.”

He’s unsuccessful. On both counts.

“So...you figured it out?”

“Yep. I’m pretty damn gay.” He pauses, waits for…

For something.

But all Eddie says in response to _that_ unasked question is “Sorry it didn’t work out.”

And what can Richie do in his thankfulness but be _honest?_ “I’m not.”

“Oh?”

“He was kinda a dipshit, in the end.”

“Well, yeah. He dated _you._ ” Eddie says it, but it’s not cold. It’s not even _mean._ It’s almost affectionate in the nonchalant way he says it, in the way he glances back in the mirror -- eyes smiling.

“Like you can talk--” Richie starts.

“Don’t.”

Eddie’s hand flexes on the steering wheel. He switches lanes, mouth twisted down when he goes to check the blind spot.

“Sorry,” Richie goes to cover himself, cringing. He wipes off his glasses on his shirt. They’d agreed they wouldn’t talk about it. They haven’t talked about anything else since, either. But if the world is going to end at midnight, all the computers crashing and missiles firing off willy nilly overseas, they might as well bring it up again.

He’s halfway to doing just that, but waiting for Eddie to say something that he can jump off. When nothing comes, Richie fills in the silent space on his own. “When I first told Bill, you know what he did? He said, ‘I know.’ Fuckin’ jackass stole my thunder.”

“...you’re still in contact with Bill?”

And Richie’s just imagining the tentative edge to his voice.  Obviously. It’s all in his head.

“Oh. I haven’t been in a few years. It was just a phone call to catch up.”

“A phone call where you just pick up the phone and say, ‘Hey, I’m gay’?”

“I know you’re joking, but that’s pretty much what happened.” Richie shrugs. “But I didn’t go around calling everyone, y’know. I just...I wasn’t avoiding you.”

“Hey, you don’t owe me anything.”

They’re at another stoplight. A car skids to a halt in front of them, halfway in their lane and half in the next one over, practically perpendicular. Eddie doesn’t even blink. He’s too used to this traffic -- unaffected. But there’s agitation somewhere on his face when Richie leans over in his seat to have a look.

In an attempt to amend, he says, “I just don’t want you to think that was the reason I lost touch…” He ticks his head to the side and tacks on, “I mean. Word choice. But you know what I mean” because he’s an idiot and can’t help himself.

“I mean, you did most of the touching in the first place. The ball wasn’t exactly in your park.”

“Holy shit.” Richie’s jaw drops.  He’d never have expected this in a million years. Shock, however, is no reason to be outdone by _Eddie_ of all people.  “Well, that wasn’t my fault.”

He retracts the second he says it. Not the right thing to say. At all.

“I know.” And this time, when Eddie moves his hand from its proper place on the steering wheel, it’s when the car slides into motion. They can practically feel the pressure he places, slow, onto the gas pedal.

Richie bites the inside of his cheek to dam up the words, but they spill out anyway. The leak is unidentifiable as it always had been. He shifts in his seat; the belt keeping him down in an uncomfortable position. He wants to move around. “You...sound like you regret it or somethin’.”

“No.” Eddie says, soft, engaging more with the lane than with Richie in the mirror. The partition seems to get thicker. It’s harder to hear him. Eddie mars his professionalism for the first time in the drive with a hand through his hair. Richie twists in his seat to make out the profile. It’s contorted and uncomfortable and Richie wishes he hadn’t brought it up in the first place. Really. He does.  “I don’t regret it. I just...nevermind. New subject.”

“Very enlightening,.”

_Beep freakin’ beep, Richie._

“ _Richie.”_

“Okay, okay,” He holds his hands up, as though the plexiglass wasn’t enough of a barrier. He slouches back in the seat, waiting for something to come to mind. On the sidewalk, there’s a woman holding up a cardboard sign, in stark black reading: **Y2K: IT’S COMING.**

And, sure, maybe the idea of the end of the world is a little heavy. But it’s gotta be a little lighter than this, right?

So, Richie gestures to the sign-holding woman. “End of the world. Your thoughts?”

“You don’t wanna hear my thoughts.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t. You think I’m paranoid.”

“Why else would I be asking?”

“I think it’s going to be total fucking chaos, but not the end of the world. Not...exactly.” He stops, and when Richie doesn’t respond, continues: “At least not tonight. Tonight might not even get that far. Tonight people are getting shitfaced and letting off illegal fireworks. Tomorrow...that’s when we’ll feel it. If the computer guys don’t figure out their shit. I want ‘em to. I just don’t know if they will, y’know?”

“Talk about a happy freakin’ new year,” Richie comments. But he can’t help but feel like Eddie has a point. Maybe not the point he intended, but a point nonetheless, and an incredibly New Yorkian one at that. For thousands upon thousands of people in the city, tonight isn’t about Y2k or the scare. It’s about hedonism. Hedonism, avoidance, a fear of the future, and little else.  He watches Eddie turn onto a less busy street and asks, “Are you gonna be okay if it does get chaotic? You’re driving all over New York alone and all.”  

“Jesus. You sound like Myra.”

“Myra?”

Eddie sucks in a breath, almost like it hurts. “She’s my... _was_ my girlfriend.”

“Was?” Richie can’t help but notice the way his voice chirruped there. As though he has any right to be invested in this other than catch-up small-talk.

“Uh. Yeah. We’d been together a few years. She wanted a ring and gave me the ultimatum.” He slides into the next lane over. Richie notices the tendon pop out of his neck when he checks his blind spot. “I haven’t given her my answer yet.”

“Do you _want_ to?” These words really shouldn't add up to mean anything more than furthering the conversation. But Eddie’s eyes are still more brown than Richie had remembered. The difference between seventeen and twenty-three shouldn’t be that much, but somehow, it is. And somehow it’s even less. It’s all very vague and Richie, who is acutely aware of the importance of specific details (at least within comedy), is a bit lost.

And he doesn’t want to name the wave of relief that washes over him for what it is when Eddie says, “I don’t think so. No.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” Richie repeats the sentiment.

“No you’re not. You would’ve hated her.”

They’re quiet for a moment. The sounds of their respective voices fade to make way for the click of a turn signal and the screech of tires and the humming of the radiator  and loud boisterous crowings of passersby four lanes away.

“Hey,” Richie says to break the synthetic sounds of the city for something more natural. “At least we’re alone together for the new millennium.”

“Great. We can eat each other if food supplies run out.” Eddie says, dryly, rolling his eyes.

“Eddie, you kinky bastard.”

“Shut up, Richie.”

Richie doesn’t know why the only feeling he  can describe in his gut is _existential fucking dread._ It’s a little overdramatic, especially considering all that’s happened is that Eddie has finally pulled into the overfull parking lot of his hotel. He’s wearing a rather stark frown. It’s half past ten.

Had they been in Queens all this time?

“Here we are,” Eddie spins the wheel under his hands. The car glides to a halt in front of the big revolving door. “Um. Cash or credit?”

Richie feels awkward slipping his card through the partition. Eddie’s fingertips are warm when they brush together.

And maybe that’s why, when he climbs out of the cab, on a stammer of an impulse, he leans against Eddie’s window and taps on the glass.

Eddie rolls the window down, arm and shoulder working together to do it. “What?”

Richie hardly lets Eddie finish his question before he’s asking him if he wants to come up. Up to his cold, unfriendly hotel room that smells like bleach and synthetic pine.

Eddie blinks. “I--I’m working.”

“So?” Richie leans against the open window, his shoes crunching in the snow. His feet had gotten used to the heat in the cab, and they prickle in protest of the new temperature shift.  “Do you really wanna be on the roads at midnight, anyway?”

He’s leaning against a car window, out in the cold like some cheap prostitute, asking a guy to come up to his hotel room. Though - not any guy. It’s Eddie. It’s Eddie so it’s fine.

Right?  
  
Eddie slides his tongue on the inside of his cheek and, after a silence that lasts a little too long, says, “...okay.”

He waits for Eddie to park his cab. A strange sense of relief boiling up from the base of his stomach when he does, as though Richie had half assumed he’s just drive away. He takes a while, though, because he’s fastening his coat all the way and his scarf and gloves and even though they’re not even that far off from the hotel and Richie’s standing out in the snow in his freakin’ sweater. But it’s okay.

It’s kind of better than okay.

When Eddie is standing at Richie’s side again, he smiles. Eddie’s still a short man -- Richie easily stands few good inches taller than him -- and he’s still compact and neat and put together. It’s nice. Richie finds himself quirking his lips as Eddie readjusts his scarf as they head for the door.

“Same old Eds,” He mutters, not really meaning to say anything, and much less meaning for the comment to be overheard over the hustle and bustle of the city  all around them. Granted, it’s quieter than Manhattan, but it’s still an entirely restless city.

Restless, like the way Eddie shoves at him with a gloved hand. “Don’t call me that.”

It’s easy and immediate, this script they wrote so long ago and still manage to abide by the letter.

 

* * *

 

 

The lobby isn’t exactly empty as they swing through the revolving door, but Richie supposes it’s the emptiest a hotel in Queens is possible to get on New Years. People are nestled on the sofas, eating the little bowls of candy, and watching the footage from Times Square alongside complete strangers.

It’s the tiniest bit pathetic. But Richie can’t judge too much. Chances are he would’ve ended up in the same position if it weren’t for the guy on his heels, clapping the snow off his shoulders. Hell, he might end up in the same position in a little bit. There’s an implication in the air, as far as Richie can see, but when he’d asked Eddie come up, he hadn’t asked him about the specifics.

Which, really, was a little surprising. It’s odd that _now’s_ the time Richie grows some tact. And a little inconvenient. For all Richie knows, Eddie just wants to hoard the room-service food before the upcoming shortage hits grocery stores.

And, if that’s the case, Richie really can’t blame the guy.

They cross the lobby, phasing invisible between small pockets of people, and once they reach the wall, Richie speaks again. “Elevator or stairs?”

“Hm?”

“I’m on the third floor. Do you wanna take the elevator of the stairs?”

They both look at the clock over the concierge desk. It’s getting late. Not so late they’d be stuck in an elevator, if it decides to shut down in its shaft, at midnight. But late nonetheless, and Richie slips through the door to the stairwell with Eddie just behind him.

There’s next to no one on the chilly vertical corridor. It’s a nice hotel, so they’re well-lit and carpeted and not quite _narrow,_ either. But it’s the closest to being alone they can be before they reach Richie’s room and it makes him itch in a way he isn’t sure he likes. And so, he makes his ascent quickly. He’d never grown out of the antsy, vibratro way he moved. Kind of like bad eyesight. It’s a relic from the old days he just lives with. And it hasn’t shown so brightly as that moment, with him dashing up the first flight of stairs. He’s barely holding the bannister.

But as he turns to make his way up the next flight, to the third floor, he notices he’s widened the gap between him and Eddie. The guy is just _walking,_ moving from a few stairs below. Practically half a flight. His breathing’s gone ragged. He’s got a hand on his chest.

For once, Richie stands still, waits for Eddie to catch up. “You okay there, Wheezy?”

Eddie flips him off. And, as though it’s an act of fucking defiance, waits till he’s practically standing on Richie’s toes before he reaches into his pocket. They’re teetering on the same stair. Richie’s back is pressed into the banister, and he can’t help but swallow all the fluid that’s risen into his mouth. Eddie removes his hand from his pocket, holding a green inhaler. He lifts the plastic to his mouth, lips pursed over the mouthpiece, and presses the button. The sound of medicine shooting into his lungs practically echoes through the empty stairwell. Eddie’s breathing returns to normal and Richie, for the life of him, does not move.  

Though, he really should. Green means go.

Eddie’s so short, even more when he’s standing on Richie’s toes like he is. His cheeks are pink, possibly because he’s still dressed for a fucking blizzard, and Richie can see that he actually does still have all his old freckles, for all the ways they’ve faded.

His lips look cold, too. A little chapped, but not painfully so. Just enough so he can make out slight crevices to emerge when he finally breaks their quiet with a quirked brow and, Richie could swear, the most fragmented of leans towards him. “Did that _turn you on?”_

“You wish,” Richie turns away to hide any redness that’s risen to his cheeks. He really shouldn’t be responding like this. He’s too old for this shit. “If you wanna see that, you have to try harder.”

Eddie scoffs. Whether it’s because Richie’s slowed down or Eddie’s sped up, he’s able to keep up with him this time. “I don’t. I’ve seen your horny face and it’s fucking ridiculous.”

“Oh, but dear Eddie, that’s part of my charm,” Richie says.

And maybe joking about this should have made the air lighter, but Richie wouldn’t be surprised if he missed a step and went tumbling all the way to the ground floor. He’d easily bust through all the stairs from the way the centrifugal force presses him down.

Because, all of a sudden, it’s acknowledged. There’s an expectation. Richie hadn’t needed to be so straightforward, because fuck any implication --

They’d mentioned it.

This might be happening. They both know it’s happening. Even if Eddie’s keeping himself at a certain emotional distance -- he’s the one who asked. He’s the first one to actually bring up the topic of sex. Out loud. Verbally.

That’s usually Richie’s thing, but he’s glad Eddie beat him to the punch.

They’re out of the stairwell and get quiet. There’s people out on mobile phones, or waiting for the payphone at the end of the hall. People holding Solo Cups and smoking near the window. They tread, without word, to Richie’s room.

If the hallway’s crowded, nearly every room they pass seems to be even more so. They can hear every number of loud parties inside the rooms. One of which, Richie thinks, is probably some over-expensive end-o’the-world orgy. The carpet is ugly with its patterns.  He’s acutely aware of Eddie beside him, his even breathing, the body heat. Their hands almost bump together, but neither of them close the distance.

Next thing he knows, he’s sliding his key card and waiting for blinking green lights.

Richie doesn’t know what he’d been expecting, once the door opens. He’s been in this room for a couple days now, and it looks nearly the same as how he left it. The made bed and empty trash bin are the only evidence that something’s different. But everything’s different, because he’s not collapsing on the lumpy couch and watching something lame on TV or renting even lamer porn. This time, he’s got Eddie with him.

He unceremoniously trips over the safe that, somehow, seemed to slide its corner into the hall, like a hitchhiker with an especially trip-overable thumb.  Eddie laughs at him and it turns Richie’s stomach inside out. It’s practically fucking nostalgia.  Back when he first realized he liked boys. Back when he realized he that the way he liked Eddie was different than the way he liked Mike or Ben or Stanley. He’s gone back to the days where he was sixteen and could have sworn this was some kind of inevitability.

Nostalgia, yes. But it’s new, too. They’re not sixteen anymore and maybe it’s not the best thing to dwell on what it was like back when. Back when all he had were his six friends and the bruises on his knees.

They’re twenty-three now, and even though they’re both lacking in the other five friends and their bruised knees, they have other things swirling in the back of their mind. Rent and bills and the end of the goddamn world. 

They’re not doing this by necessity. Not this time. And that’s…

That’s really fucking terrifying.

Terrified or not, he leads Eddie into the center of the room, fingers spindling at his sides, practically signing out _trepidation._  It’s almost unreal. The room’s practically humming with the things he’s trying not to say, things he wants to say and things he doesn’t.

Maybe it’s the years between them. Maybe it’s the context. But still. It’s Eddie. The air shouldn’t feel so heavy.

But, thankfully, Eddie offers him an out. He rips off the duvet from the bed, letting it fold over the footboard.

“Whoa, there, Eds. Tell me I’m pretty first.”

Maybe unnecessary, but it makes the whole thing a little lighter. Incrementally. But lighter.

Eddie rolls his eyes and turns back to the bed to throw the pillows onto the lumpy sofa. “Duvets and pillowcases are, statistically, the dirtiest places in hotel rooms. They’re, like, breeding grounds for e coli.”

“I thought that was doorknobs or something?” Richie asks, shimmying out of his own sweater, and throwing it over the sink nearest him. He circles a little closer, once it's out, hands unsure where to go and slide into his pockets.

Eddie sighs, and removes his gloves. He places them on the nightstand and begins to pluck at his scarf. The fabric revealing his neck, inch by inch. And Richie might’ve been inclined to stare if not for the next thing Eddie said: “Why are you giving me a hard time?”

Once again. Too easy.

Richie grins and slides a little closer, steps a bit too broad to be natural. He probably looks like he’s doing fucking lunges, but then he’s right in front of Eddie again. “Oh, I can show you a hard time.”

“My God,” Eddie groans, pinching the bridge of his nose even as his other hand moves to unbutton his coat. “Do you even hear yourself when you speak? Even when you try to be serious -- and you can’t fucking take anything seriously, and now you’re doing a dick pun---?”

“I’ve got more where that _came_ from,” Richie interrupts, wide grin and a wink he’s sure looks buggy through his lenses, moving his own hands to help Eddie with his buttons.

Eddie rolls his eyes, but accepts the help. He’s warm under all those layers, and Richie’s about to get lost in the slim planes he can almost feel out through the sweatshirt, but then Eddie presses himself up onto his toes. With the palms of his hands, he slides Richie’s glasses off his face and places them on the nightstand beside his gloves.

Richie can feel Eddie’s lips almost bouncing off his when he says, “Shut the fuck up, Trashmouth.”

Now they’re kissing. Eddie tastes bitter -- like his fucking inhaler. But his mouth is soft and his hands are warm, threading through his hair and pressing into his neck. Richie has both of his on Eddie’s waist, fingers teasing under the seam of his sweatshirt. Eddie’s got another shirt on under it, tucked into his belt.

Richie can’t help but think: _God, he’s such a dork._

When he goes to snicker, Eddie’s lips pull back in something that almost feels like a question. Before he can ask, Richie has to say his piece. His tongue slides along the bottom edge of Eddie’s lips by way of asking. Eddie folds, like his knees went out from under him, sitting on the mattress with his mouth opening. Richie’s stomach quivers and he’s sure his heart stopped beating for a solid second. It’s hot and wet in there, and Eddie moves his head and bites on his lip. It sends something tremoring to his core. When Richie’s tongue retreats, Eddie’s is seeking him out again.

But then, so slowly Richie isn’t even sure it happening, Eddie pulls way. The sound echoes, loud, from the way their lips broke and leaves Richie feeling cold. It’s like he’s all the way down in the street again.

“What?” He can’t help but ask, voice half caught in a whine. It’s probably two octaves higher than could be at all considered attractive.

It’s maybe a second before Eddie replies, but Richie hears his heart in ears a good hundred or so times before he gets his answer: “Nothing.”

It doesn’t look like Eddie wants to elaborate: he’s leaning in again. But, this time, it’s Richie who leans back.

“No. What is it?”

“It’s not important--” He tries to kiss Richie again, but only meets air. Richie’s practically flat on his back.

The thing is, Richie doesn’t want to think that, maybe, Eddie doesn’t like kissing him. Not only because he’s a great kisser but also, because making out is generally really fucking great. But, maybe Eddie just changed his mind. Richie doesn’t want to do this if Eddie’s just doing this because he doesn’t want to wuss out.

“C’mon, Eddie. Spit it out.”

“You’re ruining the mood.”

“C’mon.”

“ _Richie.”_

“I mean, _you_ stopped kissing _me_. I’m a goddamn pro at tonsil hockey so whatever your hang up is--”

Eddie sighs and spits out, quick and snappish, “It’s fuckin’ nice, okay?”

“Oh.”

“Satisfied?”

Richie’s sure he’s blushing, but he tries to cover it up to the best of his ability. “I mean, ‘spectacular’ would’ve been better.”

He winks and returns to an upright position so he can continue to kiss his way into Eddie’s mouth. Slowly, a mix of soft pecks and wet heated exchanges, he endeavors to prove his point. Eddie responds in kind, steepling his fingers down from Richie’s hair and neck. His hands shift  to his spine and shoulders.

It’s kind of nice. Richie’s not the most muscular guy -- especially for California -- it’s kind of nice to feel like he has something substantial there for Eddie to cling to.

They break again, just for a moment. “Shush,” Eddie says before Richie can even start, as he pulls Richie’s t-shirt over his head and throws it over the lampshade. It casts bizarre shadows through the room, warm orange lights scattering in abnormal patterns on the wallpaper and sheets. Richie helps Eddie out of his sweatshirt a second later, and rips his undershirt from his belt for good measure.

And then they’re back together. There’s no reason to resist the pull or the addictiveness of hot breath ghosting between their lips. Richie swings a leg up over Eddie’s lap. Weirdly enough, Eddie seems less small with Richie straddling his hips. It’s probably the pressure that’s starting to build, and when Richie tests the theory, pressing their hips together, he’s pleased with what he finds, with the strangled yelp that bursts from Eddie’s lungs.

Somehow, when Richie reaches out, he finds leverage against the wall. He’s not sure when they shifted, in this position, nor when the heat burst from the base of his spine. It’s starting to spread, the more his hips move against Eddie, the more Eddie bucks almost a second too late afterwards, strangled noises sliding out from their tongues. Richie can practically feel the vibrations in both their mouths.  He wonders if Eddie can feel it trembling through his skin, or the way his hands are shaking when he goes to unclasp Eddie’s belt.

Which, is ridiculous. He’s not even nervous. But, for whatever reason, he can’t stop shaking.

Eddie lies back, and Richie can’t help but smile. Eddie’s flushed and his lips look wonderfully swollen. The world is blurry and Richie can’t make out any details, but somehow, he’s still gorgeous like that.

Richie presses his hands roughly down the center of Eddie’s heaving chest. He concentrates on the soft skin of his stomach. Eddie’s always looked skinny but his bones haven’t pointed out anywhere since they were kids and before the differences in the widths of his shoulders and hips were noticeable. He’s tangible and real and absolutely fucking vital to Richie right now. It’s like he’s welded himself of the recycled parts of Richie’s life, to turn into the hinge that’ll shove in the millennium.

Richie focuses in on overtaking the bitter taste of puff steroids in Eddie’s mouth with skin and saliva. From where his knees are bent, a nerve ripples through his thigh, tension begging to be dealt with.

He opens his eyes and Eddie’s eyes are more pupil than brown and his hair’s messy and his lips are wet and

Richie’s not sure he’s ever _wanted_ this much before.

But, because he’s Richie, he just can’t keep his mouth shut. At this point, he might as well be cursed. Words just refuse to stay down. It’s like they’re vying for a monopoly over a mouth that Richie just wants to give to Eddie, no strings attached. Especially no strings that sound like “Ridiculous?”

“What?” Eddie blinks, chest moving quickly with a harried breath. His hands, though, still slide down to the small of Richie’s back. He’s holding onto his thighs like a climbing rope from middle school P.E.

Except, Eddie never had to climb the ropes in school. He had doctor’s notes.

But that’s neither here nor there and Richie elaborates on the question, a little high on the idea that he might’ve shorted out Eds’s train of thought. “My horny face. It’s ridiculous. Remember?”

“Oh yeah,” Eddie nods, adjusting his back against the mattress. Richie bucks without meaning to. “But I kinda like it. Kinda.”

“You love it.”

And not that Richie’s exaggerating in his own head, but he can swear he feels Eddie’s knees part - just a little - underneath him as he mumbles a short “Shut up.”

Though, that doesn’t carry much weight when punctuated, as it is, with the sort of kiss that could make the coldest sonuvabitch combust into a thousand flaming pieces.

It occurs to Richie that they can still hear the parties thrumming down the hall. They’re muffled through the extra layers of wall, but still audible. It makes him feel like he’s stuck in this bubble, with Eddie, and they’re here - with Richie grinding against Eddie and Eddie grabbing at his back like he doesn’t even know what to do. Maybe it’s the half-admission of whatever the hell it was they’d just admitted. But they’re not going to question it, and the next time they break apart, it’s so Richie can lick his palm from the heel to the fingertips. He’s still hovering over him on his knees, but moves down. With one hand he tugs the khakis down to Eddie’s knees, and the other plunges under his waistband.

And when Eddie whines into his mouth and ruts into his hand, Richie’s smiling.

Eddie’s flushed and sweaty and warm and smells like skin and salt. He sounds like a whistle, nasal and high and doing his damndest to subdue his own reactions.

It’s starting to feel like a dare.

Eddie bites his lip and the image is blurry enough that Richie can’t make out individual teeth. But, still. It’s adorable. Because he knows Eddie. He knows that he looks like, and even if there’s something unsatisfying in not being able to count his freckles while he’s hissing out expletives between the consonants in Richie’s name -- there’s something fantastical about the sound and blurry phases of color sliding around each other.

The exhausted sigh between them echoes in their ears. Hands trace lightly, soft exploration of their half-stripped bodies. Their mouths rest with an exhausted gasp of air -- no tongue, no physical motion, just sharing oxygen and carbon dioxide -- and they rest on one another.

“Did you…”  Eddie sighs, keens a little bit into Richie’s palm, “Wanna keep going?”

Richie doesn’t even know how to say yes quickly enough. So, he opts to say it in every way he knows how. He’ll kiss Eddie again and rattle off _Yes, yeah si, oui, ja,_ and _da_ while Eddie does his best not to laugh at him.

Which is to say, he just laughs at him without reservation.

Richie doesn’t want to leave the bed to get to his duffle bag. He’s not the type to use the dressers in hotels, although he supposes Eddie is. Either way, he pulls his bag from under the bed, fishing with his hips and legs still up on the mattress, till he can find the small green tube and a small roll of condoms between sticks of nicotine gum and old movie stubs.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Of course you packed that with you.”

“Are you _complaining?”_

Eddie’s only answer is to grill him further. “Is that oil based?” He reaches for the tub to inspect it himself. “That can disintegrate condoms.”

“Silicone. It’s safe.” Richie answers. He intends to let Eddie inspect everything till his heart’s content, it’s just difficult when he looks so cute, inspecting the wrapper for any kind of wear or holes. He can hardly help sliding up next to him, kissing his way down from his ear, down the slope of his jaw and neck, to his clavicle.

Eddie hisses once or twice, mostly when Richie scrapes his teeth along the skin, but doesn’t move to take his eyes off the tube or the condom for a few more moments  before he finally -- finally _finally --_ says, “Okay. It’s good.”

“What?” Richie gasps, sucking in a small bit of skin from the base of Eddie’s neck. “Do I finally get the Kaspbrak Seal of Approval?”

Eddie hums and tries -- but fails -- to sound irritated. “Not if you keep stalling.”

Richie returns to Eddie’s mouth, only leaving a slight pink mark behind. He cards a hand through his hair and presses a slow, soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “So how do you wanna do this?”

Eddie turns his head to kiss Richie more fully, hand tentatively sliding down Richie’s body. Despite the intrepid fingers, shaky breath, and Eddie stammers - actually fucking stammers, “I..I dunno. I’ve never actually done this--”

“Wait, _what?”_ Richie practically jumps to his feet.

“Jesus. I meant with a guy. Not in _general.”_

Easy as it’d be to make an Eddie’s-a-virgin joke, Richie actually manages to suppress the urge. Maybe it’s a new level of maturity. They hadn’t gone this far the time before, heteronormative though that idea is, and Richie really wants to know if it’ll feel as inevitable as the rest of this has. Where does that line of inevitability stop with Eddie?

“Let’s start with who you want to wear this,” He says, holding up the condom.

“You.” It’s quick, almost quiet. Almost nervy. “That’ll be easier for me--”  

“I thought you said you’d never done this before?” Richie retorts, only half listening. He’s crawling over to his friend, nudging his knees to prompt them to slide further apart.

And they do.

“I told you, just not with a guy. God, do you have to be so _insufferable_ all of the -- _oof-- “_

Richie cuts him off, practically tackling his old friend and rolling him into the mattress, hot open kisses punctuating the movements as they kick off Eddie’s khakis the rest of the way and then Richie’s jeans and they’re just in their underwear and and Eddie’s hair is ticking his nose from where he’s running his lips, teeth, and tongue up the column on his neck. And Richie groans, kisses the side of Eddie’s forehead. He’s too fevered and Eddie feels so good and he just needs more, so he asks, “Can I go down on you?”

“Oh...I--” Eddie stops for a moment. It’s like there’s something unknown lurking there and Richie can only blink and figures that his eyes are playing tricks on him in the dark. Quietly, almost so much so that it’s hard to hear, Eddie says, “I’d rather you didn’t, actually.”

“Okay.” Richie can’t exactly say that he’s not disappointed, but there’s no reason to pout over it. He asked a question; he got an answer. And, besides, there’s more than one form of foreplay.  “Um...can I... _touch_ you, then?”

Eddie chortles, and it sounds musical and whistly. He fakes a cringe and says, “Ugh. That’ll be a hard sell.”

It’d be a confusing mixed message if not for the way he kisses Richie, rolling over on top of him and their noses bump together. Eddie plucks one of Richie’s wrists off his hip and puts it over him. Richie takes the cue, steadily jerking -- starting slow, air expelling shakily as Eddie’s head slides back. His chin is pointing to the ceiling, sitting upright against the headboard, and he’s mostly bare and out of breath and pink cheeked.

And it’s surprising, Eddie’s voice cuts Richie through, as he whines, “K-keep going.”

Richie closes his eyes, rolling Eddie’s boxer briefs down his hips and legs, chortling between their mouths as Eddie tries to kick them off without leaving their position, practically connected. He has to rely on his own sense of touch to unscrew his tub and coat his fingers.  Relying on touch, of course, because he can’t take his eyes off Eddie’s face, the way he’s crooning and looking up at the ceiling.

“It’s gonna feel a little tight for a sec, okay?” And he kisses him at the same time he presses against muscle. Eddie squirms and lets out a small chirp. Richie tries not to snicker. Unsuccessfully. “You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just…” Eddie pauses and fills that gap with a small sampling of soft, bouncing kisses to Richie’s lips. “It’s fuckin’ weird.”

“Give it a minute.”

“You sure you know what you’re doing--” Eddie begins, but can’t quite punctuate as Richie narrows his eyes and, for extra measure, uses his free hand to swipe over Eddie’s erection, palm ghosting over the most sensitive parts and crooks his finger. “-- _Fuck_.”

“Yes, what was that, Eddie dear?” Richie teases, nibbling on his ear as he finds an acceptable rhythm between both his hands.

“Shut up.”

Eddie’s hands clutch as his back. His nails rake down his spine, hard, and there’s something about the idea that Richie’s skin is under his fingernails that makes Richie cant against him, a little mewl lost in the hot air between their mouths. And honestly, he can’t believe he’s arching back into Eddie’s nails. But, it anybody’s gonna make a masochist of him, it might as well be Eddie Kaspbrak.

He’s fucking beautiful, flushed and tense and breathing hard.

“Eddie--”

Richie finds his lower lip snagged between Eddie’s teeth, he hears a short " _Shhh,”_ and feels a hand slide down his front and then he’s bucking into Eddie’s hand, curled around him in a way that feels like something inevitable.

“What? You don’t wanna put the ‘come’ back in _com-_ munication?”

Eddie laughs. Full on laughs -- he’s out of breath, but Richie can feel his stomach quiver against his. He does his best to roll his eyes and asks, still though laughter and unfinished breaths, “Why did I decide I wanted to have sex with you, again?”  

Richie shrugs, and rubs their noses together, slowing his pace in both his hands. “I guess you’re kinda fond of me or somethin’.”

“I guess.” Eddie murmurs on half a gasp, taking Richie’s lips back to his own, jerking him steadily, tongue swiping between their mouths.

They’re moving together, and Richie isn’t sure how long this has lasted so far. Time’s melting around them. It might as well be the end of the world.  The tension in all his tendons and muscles and he could keep kissing and touching Eddie forever, practically drunk on the way Eddie’s hips keep thrusting against his and the tiny warbling sounds. But forever ends with a two-syllable question: “ _Ready?”_

And then Eddie’s unwrapping the condom and makes sure it’s going the right way. He’s preparing it with a sort of orthodox concentration, the focus in his jaw as he squeezes a few drops of lubricant into the tip once it’s pinched out. He turns to Richie and rolls the rubber on with that same concentration as before.

Richie bites his lip, breathing out slow and rising to his elbows to get a better look, watching Eddie’s fingers steeple and trying not to keen at the pressure over hot skin. “You…” He hisses, not sure what he’s going to say before it spills from his lips. Typical. “You’re actually kinda good at putting that on.”

“It’s not exactly rocket science.” Eddie presses his lips together in his confusion. For a second he closes his eyes and snaps out, “And don’t you dare make a joke out of that.”

“Out of what? My rocket?”

Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose and groans. “Fucking hell, Richie. Just shut up.”

“Make me.” Richie goads, shudder gliding up and down his body, concentrated, like a searchlight. “And _that_ was a dare.”

It’s a dare Eddie takes.

Richie isn’t sure of how one moment melts into the next. They’re moving together, and one second Eddie’s riding him and the next they’re lying on their sides, laughing and kissing and telling dumb quips and then they’re fucking again and then they’re not and it slides from one moment to the next, fragmented and dizzying and loud and messy.

And, after a while that Richie can’t even guess how long, it’s starting to climb to its apex.

He doesn’t know where the strength comes from, especially with the intense burn building under his abdomen, but he manages to get enough in his upper body to tackle Eddie, arms suddenly clutching onto either side of his waist.

Eddie goes down with a shocked chirp, hitting the warm sheets and Richie rolls on top of him. Outside the window, reminding Richie for the first time in a long while they were in a room in New York on New Years’ Eve, there’s an explosion of thunder and color. Red and pink and yellow. Both their heads swing over to the window as the pane fills with green at the next bang of sound.

Oh - no, then. Not thunder. Fireworks.

Eddie looks over at the alarm clock. “Hey,” He murmurs, breathless and running a hand through his sweat soaked hair. “It’s midnight.”

“Happy New Year,” Richie whispers, scratchy and almost quiet. He kisses Eddie, softer than before,  because it’s the best way to begin a new year, or millennium or the best way to begin the end of the world or whatever’s around the corner.

But they’ll deal with that later. Because now Richie’s back inside Eddie and maybe it’s the new angle but he’s louder than before and his whines are getting higher and louder and his face is starting to contort.

Please - oh - please.

“ _Fuck.”_

And, it’s happening. Eddie’s spine arcs up; his mouth is gaping although the tension reached its apex in his brows and legs. He’s groaning and he’s shuddering, still moving on the mattress where Richie keeps going to help him through his orgasm.

Or, at least, as long as he can. It doesn’t take much once he feels something warm and sticky splatter on his stomach before he’s lurching over, his head stuck in the crook of Eddie’s neck, shuddering out euphoria that surges down his spine.

Explosions and fireworks are still bursting out the window. But they’ve gone quiet, except for the ragged shaking of their breaths and the sound of Richie kissing Eddie’s racing pulse point, as though saying, ‘Thank you.’

 

* * *

 

 

January 1, 2000

 

Richie watches Eddie from where he crouches on the floor, bare and smooth. He’s reaching for his khakis and the inhaler in his pocket. He puffs the medicine into his lungs before throwing it back on the ground. It’s more inelegant than he’s used to seeing Eddie, but it’s a little intoxicating to think that he managed to tire him enough that he wasn’t going to fold his clothes. From his other pocket, Eddie pulls out a red Nokia, tapping it on the opposite wrist.

And then he stays put. He’s crouched in a mess of angles and skin, looking to and fro in the newly darkened room.

Richie, for his part, puts his glasses back on, so that he can make out the finer details of his friend and the room. He leans against the headboard, and holds out his left hand across his body. “C’mere.”

Eddie quirks a brow, but does just that. It’s a little amazing to Richie that he’s still here, in the hotel room, with come drying on his stomach and sticky residue still lingering to his skin.

It’s a beautiful picture -- Eddie letting himself get mussed up, messy, untangled, and undone for longer than necessary.

Eddie takes a seat on the edge of the bed. Richie scoots to accommodate him, reaching to intertwine their fingers. It’s just as cloying as it is nice, and Richie can’t decide which option wins out.

However, it seems Eddie can.

“What the _hell?”_

Richie rolls his eyes, over exaggerated. “Will you just let me hold your stupid fucking hand?”

Eddie shrugs, but squeezes his hand in Richie’s. He taps the center button on his Nokia to examine the home screen. And, the second he does, he’s dropped Richie’s hand so fast it’s like he’s contracted a million different diseases, but he still swats at Richie’s chest.

“ _Ow,”_ Richie hisses, more to make a point than from any actual pain.

“No. Look,” Eddie hands the little plastic phone to Richie, pointing to the top of the screen.

Black digitalized numbers stare back at him, bright and clear: **01/01/00.**

And Eddie’s grin is bright and now that he has his glasses on, Richie can see the faded remnants of freckles sprinkled over his nose like sugar. And Eddie says, “It’s…it’s all okay.”

It will be. Richie’s getting more and more confident. Especially since the computers didn’t shut down. Satellites are still doing their satellite thing. From what they can tell in the dark hotel room in Queens, no buildings have crumbled to the foundation. It’ll be okay.

He reaches for Eddie’s hand again and this time Eddie takes it without comment. A small pang of something -- something hollow, like loneliness -- hits him when Eddie cranes in to kiss him for, probably, the thousandth time tonight. They’re left entirely without heat or tension, but they’re still here, naked and in bed and just lying there, kissing softly and holding each other’s stupid fucking hands.

But, still. Richie’s suddenly acutely aware that it’s Eddie. That he wants to keep kissing him like this and that he’s kinda sorta always wanted to. Just, keep it like that. Don’t move on, don’t go into January and February. Stay in December, in this hotel room.

He’s not stupid. He knows they’re both spiraling in different directions and that this was just a freak accident that’ll never happen again. Apocalypse madness, even if it doesn’t look like the world will end after all.

It doesn’t even feel like anything ended at all. Not the year, or the millennium, or the world. Not even their friendship.

And their kissing goes deeper and sweeter and Richie’s lost in Eddie’s mouth again, holding his shoulders close and wrapping his legs around Eddie’s hips. His glasses fell somewhere on the floor a minute ago and Eddie’s Nokia is lost to a crumpled sea or sheets, and they’re lying down and laughing and --

It’s nice. While it lasts. They can’t stop the clock and can’t change anything in the grand scheme of things and Richie’s been doing okay with moving on from the past but this…

It will be almost impossible to get back on his rickety bus tomorrow and head back to the heat and hastle of Los Angeles. He never thought he’d miss New York.

But it’s okay. Richie will move on. Eventually.

“Are you okay? You’re never this quiet.”

“Yeah, Eds. I’m fine.”

He swears he will.


End file.
